Kyle wakes up when Stan's alarm goes off at six thirty in the morning. There's just a hint of the sunrise in the color of the sky, birds twittering. He feels like something dead that's washed ashore after a storm.
"Are you still sick?" Stan asks. His voice is scratchy but gentle, and Kyle wants to cup his hands around it. Stan touches Kyle's forehead and moans at the heat of his skin. "I shouldn't have let you drink that much."
"Forced me to, more like," Kyle says, mumbling, and Stan snorts. He gets out of bed and starts dressing, packing the last of his stuff. Kyle closes his eyes, doesn't want to leave the bed. If Cartman wasn't joining them he'd be ready to bolt, despite his pounding headache and roiling stomach. As it is, he wants to continue avoiding reality for as long as possible. He yanks the comforter back up and buries himself deeper in the smell of Stan's sheets.
He sleeps more restfully than he did all night, and when he wakes again it's to the sound of Stan's voice. Kyle sits up and blinks in the sunlight through the window, annoyed when he sees that Kenny is in the room, sitting on a beat up old duffel bag and talking to Stan about mosquito repellant.
"Are you finally awake?" Stan asks, turning toward the bed. Kyle moans in response, rubbing his crusted-over eyes. His head still hurts, though less intensely now, and his stomach is growling. His tongue is sour and dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"Kyle's first hangover," Kenny says. He holds up his hands and pretends to take a snapshot.
"Dude, we should take a real picture," Stan says, going for his phone. "I want to take a lot of them on this trip."
"Don't take a fucking picture of me right now," Kyle says. He feels exposed, his jeans and socks crumpled up under Stan's blankets. Kenny and Stan just laugh, Stan hoisting the camera.
"I have to," he says. "For posterity."
Kyle flicks him off, but this only makes Stan laugh harder and take pictures more enthusiastically. When he's done, he slips his phone into his pocket and brings Kyle a bottle of water from his desk.
"I'll get you Advil," he says, patting Kyle's cheek. Kyle swats at him. If it was just the two of them he'd be happy to let Stan nurse him back to health, but he's never liked the knowing way that Kenny smiles when he watches Kyle receive Stan's attentions. He glowers at Kenny when Stan has left the room.
"You're here early," he says.
"No, I'm not." Kenny nods to the digital clock beside Stan's bed. "It's already nine thirty. Cartman's late."
"Shit!" Kyle kicks the blankets away, forgetting to be embarrassed about his lack of pants. "I knew he'd ruin this trip. Let's just leave without him. We'll rob a bank for gas money if we have to."
"Nice boxers," Kenny says as Kyle struggles into his jeans. Kyle looks down at his underwear, his face flushing. His boxers are blue with red polka dots.
"We still have to stop by my house to pick up my stuff," Kyle says. "And I need to change, say goodbye to my parents - dammit, why'd you guys let me sleep so late?"
"Stan said you were sick."
"He was," Stan says, coming back into the room with a bottle of Advil rattling in his hand. "And it's no big deal, Kyle, we'll still get to the campsite way before sundown. Relax."
Kyle takes the Advil, irritable and impatient, watching out the window for any sign of Cartman. He's not sure what he's hoping for. If Cartman doesn't show, they'll have to front the gas money themselves, but if he does, they'll be stuck with his fat ass and loud mouth for six long days.
"There he is," Stan says as they're loading up Stan's Corolla. Cartman's giant truck is roaring down the street, and he parks it on the road out in front of Stan's house. Kyle's stomach lurches with anxiety just at the sight of him. He's huffing as he hoists bag after bag from the backseat of his truck, tossing them onto Stan's lawn.
"What's all that shit?" Stan asks.
"My luggage, dumb ass," Cartman says. "Stan, goddammit." He turns to look at Stan's car, making a face. "I can't believe we have to make this trip in that piece of shit."
"We could take your truck if you want, but you'd have to trade me for good," Stan says. "My car's got to stay with me in California."
"Fat fucking chance," Cartman says. "I'm gonna leave the keys with your mom so mine can pick up my truck later." He heads for the house, pulling up his baggy pants as he goes. He's lost weight recently, following a second major growth spurt, but he'll still be a burdensome presence in Stan's little car.
"You could have just walked, fat ass," Kyle says. "You live like two blocks away."
"Walking is for poor people and hippies!" Cartman shouts back. He lets himself into Stan's house without knocking, and Kyle groans.
"This is gonna be great," he says, giving Stan and then Kenny a doubtful look. Stan gives him a soft punch in the shoulder.
"Cheer up," he says. "In a couple of hours you'll have a post-hangover appetite, and whatever greasy food we stop to eat will taste like the greatest thing you've had in your life."
"Yeah, right," Kyle says, his stomach groaning unhappily at the thought of food. "And look at all that stuff he's packed - what is that? Clothes?"
"Looks like food, mostly," Kenny says, kneeling down to examine Cartman's overstuffed bags. "Double Stuff Oreos, Pop Tarts - ooh, hey, there's a cooler full of chicken salad sandwiches."
"Don't touch my food, Kenny!" Cartman shouts, bursting from the front door of Stan's house and running toward his bags like he's prepared to defend them with his life. "Get your own snacks, you broke asshole!"
"Jesus, you've got enough here for like eight people," Stan says. Kenny is already backing off resentfully, sulking. He used to take jokes about his family's financial situation in stride, before he was the only one not bound for college. Cartman was the only one too stupid or indifferent to figure out that it's not funny anymore. Kyle's stomach whines painfully, and for a moment he's afraid he's going to start puking into the bushes again.
"Let's get going," Stan says. "I'm gonna go say goodbye to my mom. You guys finish loading the car - Cartman, you're not going to be able to bring all these bags."
"Like hell I'm not," Cartman says. "I need all this stuff."
"You need Double Stuff Oreos like a goddamn hole in the head," Kyle says.
"Shut up, Jew! I've lost twenty pounds since Christmas! I can eat whatever I want! Maybe you should leave behind some of your lube and sex toys, or whatever else you packed for your farewell fuck fest with Stan."
Stan walks into the house like he didn't hear that, and Kyle grits his teeth, the backs of his ears going red as he does his best to ignore it, too. The other thing that stopped being funny recently is Cartman's endless insinuations that Stan and Kyle are secret lovers. Stan has never seemed bothered by it, but Kyle feels like he's been eviscerated when Cartman starts in on them about the fact that they still have sleepovers.
"Who's driving first?" Kenny asks as he and Kyle watch Cartman try to stuff all of his bags into Stan's trunk, which is already packed full of everything Stan is taking to college.
"I guess Stan is," Kyle says. "Then me, you, and Cartman, if you guys trust him not to kill us all."
"You're the only one I'm going to kill if you don't shut up," Cartman says. He grunts and lifts his boot to try to kick one of his food bags into place.
"Careful!" Kyle says. "You're going to break Stan's stuff. He's got picture frames in there." One of them contains a picture of Stan and Kyle, which Kyle was heartened to see Stan packing. It's from last year, when they went to a Denver Nuggets game together for Kyle's birthday. Stan held the camera out and they pressed their cheeks together so they could both fit in the frame. It's slightly off center, one of Stan's favorite pictures because of a woman in the background who is making a hilarious face. It's also probably the happiest Kyle has ever looked in a picture, and he likes to think that factored into Stan's decision to frame it, too. That was one of the best nights of Kyle's life: him and Stan packed tightly into a crowded section of the arena, their shoulders and knees bumping together all night long. It was so loud that they had to speak directly into each other's ears, and Stan's lips touched the rim of Kyle's ear twice. He shivers, remembering it.
"Hello, McFly," Stan says, waving his hand in front of Kyle's face. "We're ready to go."
But Kyle isn't ready. He walks toward the passenger side slowly, his heartbeat drowning out the sound of Kenny and Cartman bickering as they climb into the back together. Stan slides into the driver's seat, and Kyle opens the passenger side door, hot panic moving from the back of his skull and down to the tips of his fingers. He takes a last look at Stan's house. It's not like he'll never be here again. There will be Thanksgiving breaks, winter holidays. Maybe even a sleepover, though he doubts it. They're already too old for that.
"Kyle, dude!" Stan says, leaning over to peer at him through the passenger side window. "I thought you were the one who was in a hurry?"
"No," Kyle says, feeling delirious. "I mean - yeah. Let's go." He gets in, shuts the door, and looks over at Stan, who grins.
"I've got the first song queued up and everything," Stan says. He starts the car, and Kyle clicks his seat belt into place, trying to calm down. They've still got six days. Anything could happen.
Cartman kicks off the trip by making fun of Stan's song choice. Kyle doesn't know the name of the song, though he's heard it on the radio a few times. It's loud, moody but upbeat. Stan rolls his window down, and Kenny and Kyle do the same. Cartman leaves his up, griping about hippie music.
"Here we go," Stan says as they approach the South Park city limits. He whacks Kyle's thigh. "If I take one more step I'll be the farthest from home I've ever been."
"Oh, Jesus, are you quoting Lord of the Rings?" Cartman says, snorting. "Stan, goddammit, you're such a fag. And that's bullshit anyway, you've been to, like. Denver and stuff."
"Quit ruining the moment," Kenny says. He pulls his hood up over his head and cinches it tight, shadowing his eyes as he stares out the window. Stan steps on the gas and the car shoots forward, toward the sign that says, Now Leaving South Park. Don't Stay Gone Too Long! Stan sticks his head out of the driver's side window and shouts victoriously as they zoom past it, doing eighty. Kyle grips the sides of his seat, almost sure that he's going to throw up now.
"Good fucking riddance!" Stan screams, laughing as he falls back into his seat. He beams over at Kyle, who manages a queasy smile despite the fact that he feels like he just got slapped in the face. Stan isn't sad about leaving. He's giddy, gripping the wheel with both hands, still driving fast.
"Like I said," Cartman says, sighing. "Faggotry."
"I'm so done with this town," Stan says. He's still smiling, but he almost looks like his eyes will well up. Ever since his parents divorced, South Park wasn't quite the same for him. He was the first of them to grow up.
"So how long til our first hotel?" Cartman asks, already going for the cooler full of sandwiches.
"Five hours," Stan says. "And it's not a hotel, it's a campsite."
"A what?" Cartman says. He pauses in the midst of unwrapping a sandwich, scowling.
"Camp-site," Stan says, pronouncing it slowly. "We're not staying at any hotels until we get to California. I figured we could get one there, maybe in Long Beach or something, since it'll be our last night."
"Long Beach sounds kinda faggy," Cartman says, his mouth full of chicken salad.
"Stop calling everything faggy," Kenny says. Kyle and Stan exchange a glance. Usually Kenny couldn't give a shit what Cartman says; it's always gone right over his head. He's in a bad mood, which is just as rare as him getting riled by Cartman's stupid comments.
"I just call 'em like I see 'em," Cartman says. "And while we're on the subject of me speaking the truth, this camping shit is for the birds and we need to get a hotel."
"If you want to pay for six nights of staying in hotels, that's fine," Kyle says.
"Dude, no it's not," Stan says. "I like camping."
Kyle says nothing, looking out the window. He's not particularly fond of camping as such, but he is sentimental about the concept, though he knows anything they do now won't live up to the one time he went camping alone with Stan. It was late in the season, a last minute trip; Stan was in a terrible fight with his mother, and Kyle had just gotten his first ever C, on a Spanish oral exam that he'd skipped preparing for in lieu of trying to calm Stan down after the fight. They both needed to get away from South Park, and didn't pack well, not anticipating a snow storm that reached out over the mountains like the icy grip of death. Unable to get back down to town before night fall, they set up camp as best they could and legitimately feared for their lives, huddled together in one sleeping bag for warmth, Kyle's face hidden against Stan's chest as they whispered about what they would regret most if they were found dead in the morning, frozen together in their poorly insulated tent. Secretly, Kyle was exactly where he wanted to be if he had to die: being held tightly by Stan, the two of them talking to keep each other awake, telling each other things they would never tell anyone else. Kyle hadn't seen Stan cry in years, but he started sniffling about how he felt guilty for some of the things he'd said to his mother during their fight. Kyle rubbed his back inside the sleeping bag, telling him she would forgive him, wondering if he should lift his face, kiss Stan's cheek, maybe his lips, last chance. He didn't, but when they woke in the morning, still alive, still holding on to each other, he was sure they would have their moment at last. Stan moaned and scooted down to ask him if he was okay, their faces just half an inch from being pressed together, and Kyle nodded, waiting to be kissed. All he wanted was something small, a soft peck on the lips that would promise more later, when they had found their way back down the mountain. But Stan yawned, sat up, and said they'd better get started on digging Stan's car out of the snow. Kyle agreed.
The camping stops they've planned on this trip won't be anything like that. It's summer, Cartman won't let them get within a foot of each other without calling them fags, and they're too old to cuddle up around Kenny, even if he does seem more depressed than he was after his father beat the shit out of him. The cornerstone of these camping trips will be Cartman's bitching, maybe with a side of Stan talking about how happy he is that the South Park portion of his life is finally over.
Stan lets Kyle pick some of the music, and Cartman has a field day with this, but Kyle doesn't care. Mentally, he's back on that snow-covered mountain, huddled inside that sleeping bag, Stan's heartbeat the only sound in the world. Every song he picks is about that night, and every song Stan picks is, too, though Kyle knows it's unintentional on his part. He watches the wildflowers pass by along the side of the road, his empty stomach beginning to grumble.
"We should stop for lunch," Stan says. "Unless Cartman wants to share his sandwiches."
"I don't want one of his sandwiches," Kenny says.
"Like hell you don't," Cartman says. "But fuck you guys, get your own food."
They stop for cheeseburgers at a place with outdoor tables, and Stan was right: Kyle feels like he hasn't eaten in weeks, and like he can't get the salty deliciousness of his french fries into his mouth fast enough. He eats two cheeseburgers and a basket full of fries, downing two huge Cokes between bites. Stan is grinning at him as if he's enjoying this.
"You got some color back in your cheeks," Stan says. He lifts his camera and takes a picture.
"Hangovers are for pussies," Cartman says. "I drank like, three bottles of vodka last night and I'm fine."
"Yeah, people who weigh three hundred pounds usually have a pretty high tolerance," Kyle says.
"Sure, unlike people who weigh - how much do you weigh now, Kyle, since you're fully grown?" Cartman asks. "Eighty, ninety pounds?"
"Shut up, fat ass," Kyle says, grumbling. He doesn't want to disclose his weight, a measly 145 on a good day. Even Kenny, who eats ketchup sandwiches on a regular basis, has manged to get bigger than him. Stan is somewhere around 175, six-foot-three, easily in the best shape of the four of them. Kyle has the suggestion of arm muscles, tight but lean, while Stan's are the kind that can throw a football sixty yards.
"I'm surprised you're not hungover," Stan says to Kenny. "You were at the party, right? Kyle said he saw you."
"I only came by to ask what time I should show up today," Kenny says. He's got his face buried in his fries. Stan treated everyone to lunch - even Cartman - as an excuse to pay for Kenny's meal. He won't be able to do that many more times on this trip.
"Where'd you go after you left?" Kyle asks. He has a vague memory of Kenny saying he had an errand to run.
"Nowhere," Kenny says. Kyle looks at Stan again. Kenny is usually a better sport about enjoying himself despite whatever else is going on in his life, but maybe they've been selfish to expect that from him for so long. Even Cartman shovels onion rings into his mouth rather than making some stupid comment.
They kill another twenty minutes at the burger stand, throwing soggy french fries to the parking lot birds, then it's back to the car, Kyle behind the wheel this time. In just a few hours they'll be in Grand Mesa National Forest, and the weather is holding out so far. There's a chance of rain this week at several stops on their route. They only brought one tent, and huddling up inside it would have been no problem if Butters was with them, but with Cartman it would be a squeeze. Kyle thinks of this optimistically as he drives: making room for Cartman might mean being closer to Stan.
Cartman and Kenny both fall asleep after lunch, Kenny with his hood hiding most of his face, his head pressed to the window, and Cartman with his head tipped back over his seat, snoring quietly enough for now. Kyle turns up the music to cover it, and glances over at Stan, who is checking his phone.
"Weird message from Wendy," Stan says.
"Yeah?"
"She's asking how the trip's going so far."
"Uh. That's weird?"
"Yeah." Stan makes a face and puts his phone away without answering. "She doesn't usually check up on me, you know? Not with texts, anyway. And we just left, like. Three hours ago."
"Maybe she misses you," Kyle says. As soon as they separate at LAX, Kyle boarding that one-way flight to Denver along with Cartman and Kenny, he's going to want to text Stan and ask him if he's okay. The difference is that Wendy can get away with it, even if Stan thinks it's weird.
"I doubt she misses me," Stan says, picking at the trim around the passenger side window. "She was pissed at me last night."
"My fault," Kyle says. "Sorry."
"Your fault? No." Stan frowns. "I just - I don't know. It's complicated."
"Sure," Kyle says, not wanting to hear anymore about Wendy. He turns up the music again, and Cartman snorts in his sleep.
"What do you think?" Stan asks.
"About what?"
"Me and Wendy. You've known us all our lives, and we've been together pretty much forever. The last time you gave me an opinion about her it was that 'girls suck ass.'"
"I never said that!" Kyle sits up straighter, panicked. Stan must know about him, on some level; Kyle has never had a real girlfriend. But they don't talk about it, ever.
"You did, too," Stan says, grinning. "Remember? When we built the clubhouse? You were like, eight. I - Kyle. All I mean is that's the last time you told me what you thought about me and Wendy."
"Why the hell do you care what I think?" Kyle asks, agitated now. He's getting hot under his arms and across the back of his neck. They've gone so long without having this conversation, and he's not about to do it with Cartman snoring in the background.
"Why do I care?" Stan scoffs. "'Cause, um, I don't know how to break it to you, but you're my best friend. Your opinion matters like, a lot."
"I think you should stay with her," Kyle says, just because it's not what Stan is expecting. "I mean, Wendy's great. You're not going to find a better girl."
"She is great," Stan says absently, looking out the window. "But. I don't know."
"What?" Kyle says. Hope springs eternal where Stan and Wendy are concerned, even now. Every time they broke up, a barren place in Kyle's chest would flood with fresh water, but it would dry up just as quickly when they got back together.
"Sometimes I feel like we were just an old habit, you know?" Stan says. "Like, we were both afraid to try anything else, because it was easier to just stay together."
Kyle nods, keeping his eyes on the road. It shouldn't sting, because Stan isn't talking about their friendship, but he might as well be. Growing up, they were almost indistinguishable; teachers used to mix up their names in class. As they got older, they both changed a lot, but they clung to each other anyway, because that was what was safe, easy, familiar. At least, that's why Stan clung to Kyle, who was increasingly a liability to his coolness. Kyle only liked Stan more, and differently, for the way he changed.
"So take some time apart," Kyle says, sighing as if he hates to say this. "I don't know what you want me to tell you."
"See, that's the thing," Stan says, whacking Kyle's shoulder. "I feel like you're only telling me what you think I want to hear. Since when do you do that, dude? Tell me the truth."
"The truth is I just don't think about your relationship with Wendy all that much," Kyle says, way too sharply to be convincing. In the back, Kenny wakes with a moan and looks around.
"Oh, shit," he says, mumbling. "I didn't know where the fuck I was for a second."
Stan and Kyle say nothing; apparently the conversation about Wendy is over. Kyle's heart beats fast, and he curses himself; the last thing he wanted on this trip was to piss Stan off. He chews his lip and tries to think about how to apologize.
"Want to stop and take a picture of the sign?" Kyle asks as they're driving into the Grand Mesa National Forest. Stan shrugs.
"I'll take one from the car," he says. "Drive slow, okay?"
"Like you need to tell Grandma Broflovski to drive slow," Kenny says, smirking. Stan grins at him in the rear view mirror.
"I know, right?" he says.
"Fuck you guys," Kyle says, fondly. Stan snaps the picture, and Cartman wakes up with a shout.
"Was that a gun shot?" he asks, panicked.
"Yeah, we're on the run from the cops," Kyle says. "Try to keep up."
"It was my camera, dipshit," Stan says. He turns to take a picture of Cartman, who bleary and confused. Cartman grunts and tries to grab the camera, but Stan evades him easily.
They stop at the park's visitor center to get maps of the campgrounds and brochures about the Forest. Kenny reads from the list of area predators: bears are at the top of the list.
"Good thing I brought my gun," Cartman says. Stan snorts.
"Funny," he says. Cartman just stares at him blankly.
"It's not funny, Stan," he says. "You guys will be kissing my boots when I'm blowing away grizzlies in defense of your lives."
"Wait, are you serious?" Kyle says. "You literally have a gun packed in between bags of Double Stuff Oreos?"
"Yeah," Cartman says, frowning. "What? You guys didn't bring guns?"
"How the fuck did you even get a gun?" Kenny asks.
"It's called being eighteen and having money, Kenny," Cartman says. "You should try it sometime. Oh, wait, you are eighteen -"
"You know what, you useless piece of shit?" Kenny says. "I made fifteen thousand dollars last year. How much did you make? Oh, right, you don't even get a fucking allowance, your mom just buys you everything you want -"
"Ooh, fifteen thousand dollars, I'm so impressed!" Cartman says. "My truck cost like, twice that much."
"Your truck that your crack whore mother bought for you? How many dudes did she have to blow for that twenty-five grand?"
Cartman's face turns red, and he does that thing where he seems to grow two feet, jerking his finger at Kenny's chest. "My mom doesn't do crack anymore!" he says, shouting, drawing the attention of a park ranger. "Unlike yours, asshole!"
"Hey, guys, whoa!" Stan steps between them. "Just - calm down, shit."
"Can we get back to the fact that Cartman is carrying a gun around?" Kyle says. "Illegally, since none of us are twenty-one?"
"What does he care if he gets arrested?" Kenny says. "His mom will just blow the chief of police to get him out."
"I'm gonna kick your ass, you white trash son of a bitch!" Cartman says, screaming now.
"Shut the fuck up, dude!" Stan hisses, but it's too late. The park ranger is approaching.
"Everything alright over here, boys?" he asks, frowning.
"Oh, yes, officer," Cartman says, suddenly all cheer and sunshine, the angry color draining from his face as he fakes a smile. "Me and my best friend Kenny were just joking around." He grabs Kenny by the shoulders and yanks him closer. Kenny quirks his mouth, coming up with a grimace of a smile for the ranger.
"Alright," the ranger says. He looks at each of them as if in warning. "You boys planning on camping here tonight?"
"Yep," Stan says. "We were just, uh. Reading up on safety before we head out."
"Heed the warnings about bears," the ranger says. "It's no laughing matter. Make sure any food you have with you is hung from a tree in the proper fashion."
"Great," Kyle mutters under his breath as the ranger heads back to the information desk. "We're gonna take down half the trees in the forest if we try to hang all of Cartman's food."
"We can leave the Oreos and stuff in the car," Stan says. "Bears won't want those. C'mon, let's get out of here before these two geniuses get us arrested."
"He fucking started it," Kenny says. He slams out the door, and Kyle gives Stan a wide-eyed look as Cartman follows Kenny outside, muttering about crack whores under his breath.
"Dude, what the fuck is wrong with Kenny?" Kyle asks.
"What do you think?" Stan says. "He's depressed about us leaving him in South Park. Well, I guess Cartman will still be there, but that doesn't really count."
"No, it's something else," Kyle says. "Even when he first dropped out of school, he wasn't this bummed. And I've never seen him this easy to set off."
Stan glances out the door at Kenny and Cartman, who are shoving each other near the car, though they don't seem in danger of getting into an actual fist fight anymore.
"What?" Kyle says. "Do you know something I don't?"
"It's nothing," Stan says. "Or - I'll tell you later. Let's just go."
Annoyed, Kyle follows him out to the car. They drive to the campground in silence, the sun beginning to sink behind the spruce trees. It's still early in the season, and there's no one else setting up camp when they arrive, only some wooden trashcans and a single picnic table there to greet them. Kyle helps Kenny with the tent, wondering what Stan was thinking about telling him. What more could possibly go wrong in Kenny's life?
"Am I the only one who's still freaking out about the fact that Cartman has a gun?" Kyle says. "Or is it just that I'm the one he's most likely to shoot on a whim?"
"I'll find it tonight while he's asleep and make sure it's not loaded," Kenny says. He keeps his eyes on his work, staking down the tent. It's gotten cloudy overhead, and they might need to crawl into this flimsy thing for shelter before the night is over.
"Can I be honest with you?" Kyle says. Kenny looks up.
"Yeah."
"I don't really like camping that much," Kyle says, keeping his voice low. Stan is about twenty feet away, trying to start a fire so they can cook the bacon they brought for BLTs. Cartman is watching, gnawing beef jerky while he tells Stan that he's doing it wrong.
"Sorry," Kenny says. "If I had any money to spare I guess we could have gotten motel rooms."
"Dude - no! That's not what I meant. It's Stan, this is his thing. He's all into nature and shit. But I hate not having running water."
"I'm used to it," Kenny says. He smirks, and Kyle forces a laugh. "Anything else you want to tell me?" Kenny asks.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
Kenny shakes his head. "Forget it. Here, you want some of this?" He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a flask.
"Fuck no," Kyle says, waving both hands at the thing. "I'm done with drinking. I'm just starting to feel normal again."
"Suit yourself." Kenny throws back a few gulps. "I got plenty more where this came from if you change your mind in a few days. I figured this was the one way I could contribute." He starts to walk off, but Kyle catches his arm.
"Dude," Kyle says. He fidgets, isn't sure if he's being a gaywad. If he is, Kenny will forgive him. "That's not all you contribute. You're our friend. I'm really glad you're here."
"Are you?" Kenny drinks from the flask again. "You don't wish it was just you and Stan?"
"No way, dude." Kyle turns away before Kenny can see his ears turn red. "I'm gonna go find more firewood," he says, heading for the trees.
"Wait up." Kenny groans and jogs after him. "Don't wander off by yourself."
"I'm fine," Kyle says, but he lets Kenny trail behind him, both of them collecting kindling. In a way, Kyle is glad that it's not just him and Stan on this trip. It would be excruciating, in a way, all those almost-there moments, no reason to cuddle up together in the same sleeping bag. Unless of course a bear was stalking them. He stops walking for a moment and listens. The woods are eerily quiet as the sun sinks lower.
"I heard you guys talking in the car," Kenny says, startling Kyle.
"Yeah?"
"About Wendy." Kenny stares at him like his reason for bringing this up should be obvious. Kyle raises his eyebrows.
"Okay," he says. "So?"
Kenny narrows his eyes a little, not unkindly, just as if he's studying Kyle. He tucks the kindling he's collected under his arm and pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up.
"They're not going to stay together," Kenny says.
"You don't think so?" Kyle starts walking back toward the camp, away from this conversation.
"They're not right for each other," Kenny says. Kyle laughs.
"Whatever you say."
"You really have no opinion about it?"
"I don't see why everyone thinks I should. Did Stan ask you to say this?"
"No." Kenny shakes his head and drinks from his flask again. "You know what, Kyle, forget it."
"Good. Done. Forgotten. Fuck! What next? Cartman is going to start grilling me about Stan and Wendy's future?"
"You're a dumb ass," Kenny says. Kyle kicks pine straw at him, furious. It's not the first time Kenny has attempted to get confrontational with him while buzzed.
"You are," Kyle says.
"Nice comeback."
"Yeah, I thought so."
Back at camp, Stan has the fire going, and he's sitting beside it with a plastic cutting board in his lap, slicing tomatoes for the sandwiches. Cartman is stretched out on what appears to be Kyle's sleeping bag, playing games on his phone.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Kyle asks, walking over to Cartman, who doesn't look up.
"Angry Birds," Cartman says.
"I mean on my sleeping bag, fat ass. Get off."
"No can do, Kyle. None of you assholes told me we'd be camping, so I didn't bring a sleeping bag. This was the first one I saw, so I claimed it. Sucks for you."
"I'm serious, Cartman, get off!" Kyle says, ready to pitch the whole armload of kindling at him. "You can sleep in the tent if you don't have a bag."
"Oh, I'll be sleeping in the tent," Cartman says. "On top of this sleeping bag."
"No, you won't, you piece of shit!"
"Hey, Kyle," Stan says. He looks tired when Kyle turns to him, his face still pinched with rage. "C'mere, dude. Help me with lettuce."
"Stan! He -"
"I know, man, but just c'mere. I'm getting a headache."
"Oh, I guess that's me and Kenny's fault," Kyle says, huffing as he walks to Stan. He puts the kindling down and sits beside him, shoulders hunched. "Totally a coincidence that we're both pissed at Cartman."
"I know whose fault it is," Stan says, softly enough to keep this from Cartman. "But he's just trying to rile you. I have a blanket - I can unzip my bag and we can both sleep on it, under the blanket."
Kyle sighs, pretending not to be elated by this development. "Fine. But he might as well keep that bag. He's going to fill it with farts that will haunt it forever."
"Probably true," Stan says. He pats Kyle's back and hands him the head of lettuce that he packed for their first night's meal. Kyle takes it and begins tearing it into neat segments, setting it on the cutting board beside the tomatoes. His fury evaporates quickly. Cartman has just done him a tremendous favor, and it's worth the price of a new sleeping bag. Kyle will be able to sleep with Stan for the rest of the trip, and Cartman won't even be able to give them shit about it, since he's the one who necessitated the situation.
Stan and Kyle cook the bacon and assemble the sandwiches while Kenny gets drunk and Cartman curses at Angry Birds. Normally Kyle would complain about having to do all the work, but it's kind of cozy, passing ingredients to Stan, making a meal together. Night falls and bugs begin to sing. Kenny sprays Kyle and Stan with mosquito repellent before they start eating.
"Let me have some of that," Cartman says, lumbering over to the campfire with a bottle of Mountain Dew that he got from one of his bags.
"Nope," Kenny says.
"Fuck you, Kenny, hurry up and spray me!" Cartman says. He slaps at a mosquito on his arm. "They're eating me alive."
"I only brought enough for me, Kyle, Stan, and Butters," Kenny says. "And you're about four times the size of Butters. We'd run out too fast if I used it on your fat ass."
Stan is making a slashing motion across his throat, but Kenny is dancing away from Cartman as he tries to grab the repellent, and he doesn't notice.
"Butters?" Cartman says. "What does that gaywad have to do with anything?"
"He was supposed to come on this trip with us," Kenny says. Stan groans under his breath, but Kyle is glad to see Cartman's bubble burst. "You actually thought you were our first choice?"
Cartman actually seems to be at a loss for a moment. Kyle manages half a second of pity for him.
"So, what, Butters decided he didn't want to get tag teamed by the three of you after all?" Cartman says. Stan laughs and shakes his head, and Kyle rolls his eyes. Kenny looks murderous.
"He got grounded," Kenny says. "So now we're stuck with you."
"Well, I might not give as many blow jobs as Butters," Cartman says. "But you guys can blow each other if you're that desperate. Now give me that bug spray."
To Kyle's surprise, Kenny does give it to him, pitching the can at him like a fast ball. Cartman catches it, and Kenny storms off toward the woods.
"Hey, what the fuck?" Stan says. "Kenny? Come eat your sandwich."
"I need a minute," Kenny shouts back. Stan curses and scrambles up, handing his sandwich to Kyle.
"Watch that for me," he says. "The last thing I need today is Kenny getting lost and eaten by bears."
"What about you?" Kyle asks as Stan jogs after Kenny. "At least take a flashlight!"
"I'll be right back!" Stan shouts back, and he's gone. Kyle sits with his mouth hanging open and his sandwich in his lap, coughing when the mist from Cartman's spray-down wafts over toward the fire.
"Be careful with that shit!" Kyle says. "It's probably flammable."
"No more flammable than your ginger ass pubes," Cartman says. "Better get them away from that fire."
"Don't talk about my pubes!" Kyle cranes his neck, trying to see Stan or Kenny through the darkness, but there's no sign of them, and he can't hear their footsteps anymore.
"Man, they're total bear food," Cartman says. He walks over and helps himself to two sandwiches. "You should consider yourself lucky, Jew. You're with the only person who came prepared." He pats his pocket, and Kyle gapes at the gun-shaped bulge.
"Get that thing away from me," Kyle says, standing. "It had better not be loaded."
"Of course it's loaded! What the hell good would it do us if it wasn't?"
Kyle groans, his appetite disappearing. He eats his sandwich anyway, because Stan helped him make it, and stares at the woods, waiting to hear any sign of Kenny and Stan's approach. There's nothing, just some hooting in the distance, and the menacing sound of the bugs as they really get going.
"Hey, fire crotch," Cartman says. "Let me ask you something."
"No."
"How are you going to survive without Stan changing your diapers? At worst, he's getting eaten by a bear right now, and at best, he's going to be brain dead after a couple of years of getting mowed over on the football field, and he'll be too far away to carry your schoolbooks for you, anyway -"
"Shut up," Kyle says, trying to channel Stan's advice: He's just trying to rile you, don't let him get to you.
"No, really, I'm wondering," Cartman says. "You guys are like, the definition of co-dependent. How come you're not going to the same school?"
"'Cause I got a scholarship to Penn State, and Stan got a scholarship to UCLA. It's not that hard to figure out."
"Yeah. Too bad you're such a weakling and Stan's such a dumb jock. Otherwise you could have gotten the same kind of scholarship."
"You know what, Cartman? Go ahead and say whatever you want. I know you're upset that we'd rather have Butters here than you. Stan didn't want Kenny to tell you, but you've been riding Kenny so much that I can't really blame him. Take my sleeping bag, eat all the food - whatever. I'm going to go lie in the tent and think about how much better this trip would have been if Butters had come instead of you."
"Eww, don't tell me your sexual fantasies about Butters coming!" Cartman says. Kyle scoffs and grabs Stan's sleeping bag, pillow, and blanket before crawling into the tent. He unzips the bag and flattens it out so that it takes up most of the floor space inside the tent. If Cartman tries to come in, Kyle will fight to the death to keep him out. Let him sit out there and think about how paltry his defenses are in the face of the truth: nobody wants him here.
The temperature outside drops, and Kyle pulls the blanket over himself, shivering as he waits to hear Kenny and Stan returning. It feels like hours have passed since they left, but when he checks his phone he sees that it's only been twenty minutes. His phone's battery is almost dead. If his phone dies, he'll be totally at Cartman's mercy, and Cartman probably wouldn't consent to call the park ranger about Stan and Kenny's disappearance until morning, just to spite Kyle. But, no - they haven't disappeared. Kenny is just blowing off steam, and Stan is keeping him company. They're safe. They're fine.
Kyle wakes from a nightmare about blood and guts and bears, jerking onto his back and swatting at whatever is trying to attack him. It's Stan. He catches Kyle's hands and pins them to the sleeping bag.
"Dude, it's okay!" he says, whispering. "It's just me."
"Stan!" Too delirious and distressed to know what he's doing, Kyle sits up and throws his arm around Stan's neck. Stan laughs and hugs him back.
"Were you having a bad dream?" he asks. Kyle looks around, glad to see that they're the only ones in the tent. He should let go of Stan anyway. He does, sitting back.
"Yeah," he says. "I just - how long were you gone?"
"I don't know, awhile." Stan sighs. "Kenny's kind of a mess. He needed to talk."
"Where is he?"
"Sleeping in the car, in the backseat. He's okay, he just got a little drunk, and, you know, he's going through some stuff."
"Some stuff? Jesus, what happened to your arm?" Kyle grabs Stan's wrist and pulls his arm up closer to his face. There's a gash just under the joint of his elbow, blood streaking from it, dripping onto Stan's jeans. Vague images from Kyle's dream streak through his mind, jolting his stomach.
"It's nothing," Stan says. "A tree branch scratched me. I got the first aid kit from the car - will you help me?"
They sit Indian-style, knees touching. Kyle cleans Stan's cut, rubs it with antibacterial ointment and bandages it. Doing so feels good, like an antidote to his bad dreams. Stan is quiet, watching Kyle work. He seems exhausted, and Kyle wonders if being with the three of them feels like babysitting to him.
"There," Kyle says when he's finished. "Now. First of all - where is Cartman, and, more importantly, where is Cartman's loaded gun?"
"He was conked out in your sleeping when we got back," Stan says. "Kenny looked for the gun in his stuff, but he couldn't find it."
"Yeah, that's 'cause he has it on him, in his pocket."
"Shit." Stan sighs, and Kyle scoots back onto the sleeping bag, hoping Stan will follow his lead. He does, resting his head on the other half of the pillow, facing Kyle. "Some first day," he says.
"I think it will get better." Kyle doesn't want to be part of the reason this trip got ruined, even if it means pretending that Cartman isn't already driving him crazy. "So. What's going on with Kenny, exactly?"
"Dude, I just spent the past hour talking about that shit," Stan says. "I'll tell you tomorrow. Can we talking about something else before bed?"
"Like what?" Kyle hopes he doesn't want to reintroduce the topic of Wendy.
"You know what I was thinking about today?" Stan asks, grinning.
"What?"
"That time when your family moved to San Francisco, and I wrote that song about hybrid cars -"
"Oh, God!" Kyle laughs, curling his knees up toward his chest. "I had that song in my head for, like. Years." Kyle remembers returning to town, the way Stan ran to him and threw his arms around him. Even then, nine years old and still a long way from sorting out his feelings, Kyle didn't want to let him go.
"I don't even remember the lyrics," Stan says. "Except for, like: 'C'mon, people now, people now!'"
"Don't, you'll get it in my head!"
"People now, people now, people now!"
Kyle laughs harder, pushing at Stan to get him to shut up, but it's feeble and insincere, just an excuse to get Stan to tackle him. Kyle rolls away, curling into a ball and laughing until tears sting the corners of his eyes. Stan is singing the song right in his ear, cracking up.
"That was the height of my musical career," Stan says.
"Whatever, dude. Guitar Hero was more impressive."
"I just had to get you back," Stan says, draining the amusement from Kyle in an instant, though his smile is still frozen on his face. Stan is behind him, propped up on his elbow, his hand clamped around Kyle's side. "Like, being away from you wasn't even an option. I wasn't even going to entertain it."
"You were just a kid," Kyle says. His heartbeat has already relocated to the hollow his throat, so heavy that it hurts.
"Yeah, but it worked. Sort of. What do I have to do now? I can't believe we're not going to the same school. I mean. I always thought we would."
Kyle doesn't say anything. He's been afraid to bring this up ever since he got his acceptance letter. He can't go anywhere that won't offer him a full scholarship, because he'd be rejected for even a five hundred dollar loan. He ruined his credit when he was nine years old, trying to prove a point about the economy to the idiots in South Park. He actually applied to UCLA as soon as Stan started seriously considering playing for their team, but Stan doesn't know that. Kyle got accepted, too, but with no scholarship.
"It'll be okay," Kyle says. Stan's hand slides off of him, and Kyle closes his eyes. It felt true when Stan was still touching him: it'll be okay.
"I guess," Stan says. "What if everyone at UCLA is a huge douche?"
"They won't be."
"Well. What if everyone at Penn State is? I mean. I bet most of them will be."
Kyle grins and rolls onto his back. Stan looks serious, like he's really worried about this, or hoping that it will be true, that Kyle will find everyone else in the world lacking in comparison. It's not such a stretch to imagine that he might; he certainly has so far.
"Come play football for Penn State," he says.
"It's not that easy. They didn't recruit me. I can't just, like. Show up to their camp."
"Why not? Steal someone else's locker. Assume the identity of a Penn State player. I'll help."
"You sound like Cartman."
"Dude!"
Stan grins. "I meant that in the best way."
Kyle makes a disapproving sound and pretends to send a punch toward Stan's face, pressing his knuckles to his cheek in slow motion. It's an old habit. He doesn't know what he'll do without the feeling of Stan's cheek against his fist, the way Stan smiles down at him when he does this. He's going to keep his cool, isn't going to let Stan get him worked up or hopeful, but he really doesn't know what the fuck he's going to do.
"That was my only idea," Kyle says. "The identity stealing one. Your turn."
"My turn? Come to UCLA. They'd accept you."
"It's too late to apply." Kyle doesn't want to admit that the only reason he's not following Stan to the ends of the earth is the loan thing. Stan must have forgotten about it. Kyle certainly did, until he got his loan applications rejected.
For a moment Stan looks like he has more to say, then he just settles down onto the sleeping bag, folding his arms behind his head and staring at the roof of the tent. Kyle arranges the blanket over both of them, not wanting to hog it. He rolls onto his side and sneaks a few nervous glances at Stan before closing his eyes and pretending to sleep.
"C'mon, people now, people now," Stan says, singing under his breath. Kyle opens his eyes, grinning, but Stan is still just staring into space, looking grave. Kyle closes his eyes again.
Sometime around dawn it starts raining, just lightly, but enough to send Cartman harrumphing into the tent, dragging Kyle's sleeping bag with him.
"Fags to the left," he says, pushing Stan out of the way. Stan lands on Kyle, scowling over his shoulder at Cartman and herding Kyle toward the wall of the tent.
"Camping is fucking gay," Cartman says. He slumps over in a heap inside Kyle's sleeping bag and immediately begins snoring. Stan sighs and settles back down onto the pillow, still pressed against Kyle with Cartman taking up most of the room inside the tent. Kyle pretends to be asleep. He can feel Stan's breath on the back of his neck, and tries mightily not to allow this to make him hard. Eventually he gives in, lets it happen. The wet sound of Cartman's snoring keeps it from becoming a full blown, needful boner, and when he wakes up again, despite the fact that Stan's face is pressed fully to his neck now, he's soft.
There's some noise from outside the tent, and the rain has stopped. Stan moans when Kyle sits up to check the location of Cartman. He's still in Kyle's sleeping bag, no longer snoring but pretty clearly asleep. A clang from out near the fire pit makes Kyle glad for a moment that Cartman has a gun. He was too irritated by him last night to remember to clean up, and bears probably respond pretty enthusiastically to the smell of bacon grease.
It's not a bear rummaging around their campsite, it's Kenny. He's got his hood pulled up and he's poking through Cartman's food bags, doing a pretty good imitation of a raccoon. Kyle leaves the tent, shivering and wanting to get back under the blanket with Stan, but unwilling to endure any comments about it from Cartman when he wakes.
"Hey, man," Kyle says, and Kenny leaps away from Cartman's bags, cursing. "Whoa, sorry. Did you sleep okay?"
"I wasn't stealing food," Kenny says, red-faced. "I just - I was looking for that gun. He's the last person who should have one."
"Yeah, I agree. Calm down, dude. And don't bother looking in there. He's got it in his pants pocket."
"Fuck! Of course." Kenny pushes his hood down. He's got bags under his eyes, and Kyle doesn't need to ask again if he slept well.
"You're hungover?" Kyle says. Kenny nods. Kyle considers asking him about what he and Stan talked about last night. If he does, Kenny might ask Kyle for his opinion about Stan and Wendy again. In a way, they've always been closer than Kenny and Stan, better able to read each other, but for that reason they've always kept their guard up, afraid to give away too much.
"Want food?" Kyle asks, and he's surprised when Kenny nods. Kyle looks at the fire, but restarting one is hopeless; the wood is soggy from the rain. He goes to the car, where Stan stowed their communal food supplies, and takes out two slices of white bread for Kenny.
"Thanks," Kenny says. He seems irritated by the gesture, and observes the bread for a few seconds before taking a bite. In middle school, Kyle and Stan would take turns bringing extra food for him to eat at lunch. In high school, he told them to stop doing it.
"I'm ready to get the hell out of here," Kyle says. The forest is dripping after the rain, and seems menacing. "I'm gonna wake those guys up if you want to start packing."
"Sounds good," Kenny says. "Where are we headed next?"
Kyle sighs. "Another fucking National Forest, dude."
"Seriously? But we're stopping in Vegas, right?"
"Yeah, but Stan wants to camp in the Lake Mead National Recreation Area while we're there."
"Whatever," Kenny says. "As long as I can hit casinos all night long. You guys can just come pick me up whenever you're done bird watching. I saved a thousand bucks for this."
"A thousand bucks? For gambling?"
"Yeah. What other chance do I have? I've been hitting the Indian casinos at home on the weekends, but that's small time. All I need is, like, twenty thousand bucks and I can give my sister enough of a cushion to live off of after I'm gone."
"Gone?" Kyle doesn't like this, or the look in Kenny's eyes as he talks about it. "Where will you go?"
Kenny shrugs. "Anywhere but South Park."
"And do what?"
"I don't know. Dig ditches? Who gives a fuck? I just don't want to be there after everyone else has gone. Just me and Timmy, right? Fuck that."
Kyle could lecture him about the risks of gambling and the low chance of breaking even in Vegas, let alone making twenty thousand dollars. He could tell him that it won't be that lonely in South Park, that they'll keep in touch, hang out on holidays, make him feel like he's still part of the crowd. He can't bring himself to say any of this, so he just stands on his tiptoes and hugs him. Kenny laughs and pats Kyle's back.
"You know, Broflovksi," he says. "You're like a mother to me."
"What?"
"Only in the sense that Stan is like a father." Kenny winks, and Kyle punches him. Behind them, the front flap of the tent unzips, and Stan comes stumbling out into the clearing, rubbing his eyes. Kyle prays that Kenny will shut his stupid mouth, and he does, winking again before heading toward the car.
"Whoa," Stan says, coming to stand beside Kyle. "Cartman's food got all wet."
"We're lucky the rotting chicken salad didn't attract bears," Kyle says. "Ready to get the fuck out of here?"
"Sure," Stan says. He yawns. "Let's pack up."
"Can we leave Cartman here?"
"No, Kyle."
When Cartman emerges from the tent he's in a foul mood, and he kicks the remains of food bags around the clearing, refusing to clean them up. Stan does it for him, sighing heavily, unable to leave his beloved environment in such a state. Kyle helps, and it's an unpleasant job, especially with Cartman and Kenny lounging in the car while they do it.
"Kenny told me about his grand plan," Kyle says. "I guess that's what you guys talked about last night?"
"I guess," Stan says. "If you want to call it a plan."
"It's so stupid, but I can't really blame him. If I was him I guess I would be desperate and naive, too."
"I don't think he's desperate." Stan pauses in his trash collecting and frowns. "Maybe a little naive, but in a good way."
"In a good way? Really, Stan? You think he's depressed now, how do you think he's going to feel when he realizes he's not leaving Vegas with twenty thousand dollars?"
"Wait, what?" Stan's frown deepens. "Twenty-thousand dollars? Vegas?"
"Are we not talking about the same thing?" Kyle asks, confused. He jumps when a blaring sound rings out from the other side of the clearing, certain for a moment that it's some sort of prehistoric forest creature that wants to eat them. It's just Cartman, sitting in the driver's seat, laying on the horn.
"Hurry up, buttholes!" he shouts. "I didn't get any breakfast and it's probably like an hour to the nearest IHOP!"
"I'll get the rest of this," Stan says, taking the soggy trash from Kyle.
"Wait," Kyle says. "So, if I'm talking about Kenny's grand plan to get rich in Vegas, what the fuck are you talking about?"
"Kenny has bigger problems than dumb get rich quick schemes," Stan says. "I'll tell you tonight."
"Stan!"
"It's not the kind of thing I can get into quickly! Let's go before Cartman drives off without us."
Kyle rides in back with Stan, dreaming of a hot shower as they drive down the mountain, toward the highway. Cartman's taste in music is an alarming mix of cheesy 90's hip-hop and twangy country, and Kyle deeply regrets packing his mp3 player into the trunk before leaving the forest, because Cartman refuses to pull over and give him access to it. Stan wants to stop at the Colorado National Monument before they cross the state line, but Cartman blasts past it, toward a Denny's that he's located with his smart phone. By the time they get there Kyle is hungry for a hot meal, too, and secretly glad that they didn't blow thirty minutes letting Stan take pictures of the National Monument. He heads for the bathroom while the others wait for a table. He cleans his hands thoroughly, and scrubs his underarms and feet as best he can with cheap soap and paper towels before slipping into a stall to change into fresh underwear and socks.
"Well, don't you smell dainty," Cartman says when Kyle finds them in the dining room, Stan patting the booth beside him like it's a seat he saved for Kyle on the school bus.
"Sorry I don't relish the idea of shoveling germs into my mouth," Kyle says.
"You're such a weirdo," Stan says. "A few germs are good for the digestive system."
"Keep telling yourself that, dude."
"Case in point," Stan says. "Kenny never gets sick."
"I highly recommend living in filth," Kenny says, nodding. Kyle laughs uncertainly, though Kenny's malaise seems to have lifted somewhat. He orders only coffee, bacon and hash browns when the waitress comes. Kyle gets French toast, Stan orders chocolate chip pancakes with a side of turkey sausage, and Cartman asks for the Lumberjack Plate with Belgian waffles on the side. He rubs his hands together when his plates arrive, the waffles piled high with whipped cream.
"I gotta get a picture of this," Stan says, digging out his camera. Cartman hams it up for him, maybe unintentionally, taking over-sized bites and chewing with his mouth open. Kyle tries to concentrate on his French toast, not wanting to lose his appetite, but Cartman is a noisy eater and hard to ignore in general.
"Oh, God," Cartman says, whipped cream at the corner of his lips. "It's like I'm back in civilization."
"Speaking of that," Kyle says. "You didn't bring that g-u-n in here, did you?"
"Um, yes." Cartman leans over the table and narrows his eyes. "Kyle, this is a highway Denny's. This isn't some harmless neighborhood Denny's with balloons on the hostess stand. The sick sons of bitches who patronize highway eateries are way more dangerous than any bear you're going to cross paths with, I guarantee it."
"Dude, you are so South Park," Stan says. "Just because it's not a small town where everybody knows your dick size doesn't mean it's dangerous."
Kyle looks around. Some of the other tables are filled with what appear to be weary travelers, but there are some crusty looking guys in denim vests and dark glasses huddled over coffee cups in the back. He scoots closer to Stan. His mother always told him that city life was a complete disgrace! and that she'd moved him to South Park when he was a toddler so that he wouldn't grow up to be a gang member. He's glad Penn State is a good three hours from Philadelphia.
"Is UCLA close to the city?" he asks Stan.
"Yep," Stan says. "I can't wait. Real Chinese food, dude, not just vats full of gloppy meat from City Wok."
"Whatever," Kenny says. "City Wok is fucking delicious."
Kyle agrees, but doesn't say so. He scrapes the syrup from his plate and licks his fork. Stan isn't only going to turn into a college football stud once he moves out west, he's going to become cultured, worldly, too cool for South Park cuisine. He'll probably end up vegan.
"First of all," Cartman says. He pats his mouth clean with a napkin. "Los Angeles is like the third most faggy city in the world, after Portland and San Francisco, and second of all, yes, Kenny, you are correct. City Wok is the best Chinese food in the world, and I'm including the shit that actually comes from China."
"Like you'd know," Stan says, laughing. The waitress brings the check, and Stan grabs it before Kyle can ask to have it split four ways. "I'll get this," he says.
"Fine," Kenny says, going for his wallet. "We'll all give you cash."
"I don't have cash," Cartman says. "And thank you, Stan, how generous."
"You shouldn't be paying for Cartman's food, dude," Kyle says, though he knows Stan is only doing so for Kenny's sake. "You're gonna be out there for three months before your scholarship money kicks in."
"Two and a half months," Stan says. "Relax, it's okay."
Kenny ends up leaving the tip in cash, and he forces Stan to accept two dollars in addition to this. Now that he's been fed, Cartman has no interest in driving, and he dumps himself in the passenger seat, pushing it all the way back onto Kyle's legs. Stan joins Kyle in the back while Kenny drives, and he lets Kyle pull his feet up onto the seat, the top of his head resting against Stan's leg. Stan takes a picture of him, and Kyle makes a face.
"Don't," he says.
"Why not?" Stay says. "It's our last summer. Don't you want to remember it?"
"I don't need to remember what I looked like at ten in the morning after eating at Denny's," Kyle says. He closes his eyes and folds his hands over his stomach. It's true, he's never going to want to see that picture, but the fact that Stan might look at it when he's sitting alone in his dorm room, thinking about this moment, makes him feel like he's floating over the highway. Kenny's music is surprisingly mellow, and Cartman seems content to be quiet now that he's stuffed himself.
"Here we go," Kenny says.
"What?" Stan says.
"Look. Utah border."
"Goodbye, Colorado," Stan says, and Kyle isn't floating anymore, he's falling in a westerly direction. He's got his safety net for now, Stan's thigh for a pillow, but it won't be there when he crashes to earth.
